Thank god. And don’t harp at me that I don’t believe in god. I will invent a god, just for the purpose of thanking it.

So I had this little brainstorm last night:

If B were tantruming for a chocolate bar, we would NEVER give it to him, right? You never give in to a tantrum. It’s the first rule of tantrums, and everybody knows this.

BUT, if B is tantruming because he just wants a fight? We happily give him one.

It bears thinking about, during such times as I am not being screamed at. I shut myself in my room this morning, to avoid giving him the fight he wanted (or rather, to cut it off in the middle, once I realized I was giving it).

I guess it helped. It made things different, anyway. He wanted more fight, later, and I was better able to shrug it off.

I’m trying to figure out what his deal is, why he’s feeling so damn angry all the time. The thing about anger, I’m figuring out, is that it’s often a mask for something else, with B anyway. As often as not, it means he’s scared, although sad and frustrated can play a role too.

There are several things converging, recently, to make him feel insecure:

• we’ve started putting his puppy in the pound when he hits us
• now that he’s five, we’ve started reminding him more often not to suck his thumb (which I think has escalated, due to feeling insecure)
• various pressures being put on him from different directions (the most obvious being this whole face-in-the-water thing, but also speech therapy has started up again, etc.)
• we’re at a developmental stage where there are supposed to be a lot of irrational fears (he worries, for example, that robbers will come into our house and rearrange his stuff)
• the fact that being five, which he had been anticipating with glee, has turned out to be not so different from being four. He’s the same person. The things that were difficult or scary before, are still difficult or scary. Where are these promised superpowers?

All of which adds up to what course of action for me? I don’t know. I suspect that backing off a bit will help, but (obviously) one worries whether “backing off a bit” is just code for “letting him do whatever the hell he wants, and not making him do anything, because I’m scared of all the anger.”

I don’t want to be scared of it, but this is hard for me. I have no training; anger was villified in the home I grew up in. We all just learned to suppress it, and I do not now think that was the way to go. What little experience I have with anger comes from Scott, and Scott is an adult with self-control who will listen to reason. The lessons from that don’t apply very neatly, or at least, I don’t see how.

And so I keep slogging along, hoping this will get better. Recently, it’s been getting worse, but I’m still hoping, and still working. But I am seriously ready for my chocolate now.

ETA: This is the best webpage I’ve found so far on what to do when you, the parent, are angry.  Most say something like, “Deal positively with your anger!” which makes me say, “Like HOW?”  This page makes it pretty clear how.

• We all went swimming on Sunday, and it resulted in notable improvements at swim class this morning.  So this afternoon, B and I went swimming again.  Here’s hoping.
• He doesn’t like putting his eyes under the water.  That’s the long and short of it, and that (putting his whole head under) is the ONE thing he really has to be able to do in order to move on to the next level swim class.  Today Teacher Brian tried to get B to fetch a ring under the water.  He put it on a step, deep enough that the other kids had had to put their faces in to get it.  B could reach it without getting his face wet.  Teacher put it one step deeper; B, with an impish grin, reached it without getting his face wet.   Teacher put it on the bottom of the pool.  Byron retrieved it with his foot, clearly proud of his own cleverness.
• We’re home now, tired.  Byron requested a video, and I was inclined to say no, but he requested Field of Dreams.  Make your mother laugh, and you win, apparently.
• I’ve started writing my next book, the sequel.  The first one has not been through the final edit yet, but no matter.  My new keyboard is crying to be used, and it’s a documented fact that I am a happier person if I have a creative hour to myself in the morning before anyone else is up.
• Also: a new exercise challenge.  I’ve gotten lazy, very lazy indeed, so I am bribing myself.  One hundred check-marks on the calendar, representing one hundred half-hours of vigorous (for me) exercise, and I will buy myself an iPod.
• And then, I will never, ever exercise again.
• Ha ha.

From The Handbook of Swim-Teacher Pedagogy, Rev. Ed. –

“If you’re hoping to encourage a child’s mother to provide him with opportunities to practice blowing bubbles at home, do not begin the conversation by asking, ‘Does he ever take a bath?’  Unless, of course, you WANT the child’s mother to snort like a horse.”

This morning after breakfast, as Byron was bouncing off the walls, Scott asked me, “Did you feed him Skittles for breakfast, or what?”

“Dude,” I said, “I don’t have to feed him Skittles to get this kind of superior performance!”

It’s been that kind of day. His swim teacher and his speech therapist both commented on it. I get accused - directly, or obliquely - of feeding him sugar. I’ve seen sugar make him bouncy, sure. I’ve also seen chicken soup do it. Correlation is not causation. The lad could bound along on nothing but vapours, I think.

read more from "Skittles"

For those of you behind the curve, like me, I present: The Comics Curmudgeon.  Dear god this site is making me laugh.  The stupid thing is, I don’t even read newspaper comics these days.  I read “Get Fuzzy” online, and sometimes Doonesbury, and that’s it.  But I know all the strips being lampooned, and while I am somewhat appalled that none of them have changed, like, EVER - not even a little - it does mean that I don’t have to be keeping up with the strips to know why the commentary is funny.

Reading the funnies so I don’t have to!  Which is great, and incredibly sad.  Some of my fondest childhood memories are of Sunday mornings, all three of us crammed onto Dad’s lap, while he read all the comic strips in silly voices.  I KNOW there are good comic strips galore online.  So what’s happened?  Have newspapers simply given up?

So we were cruising Pacific Spirit Park this morning after swim class. Apparently, my son likes to hike. I hadn’t really realized this until last weekend, when he was So Keen to go to Lighthouse Park. Anyway, today’s was a longer hike than we intended because there was a big scary dog, which scared us deeper into the forest. I think B may have been under the impression that it was still waiting for us on a trail heading out. Or something.

I had FINALLY persuaded him to head up a trail leading at least a little bit toward our car, when we came across a small cluster of people. An elderly man waved to me and said, “Do you have a cellphone?”

read more from "The Tired Samaritan"

Nah, my sister Becca came to visit. She had a hell of a trip up here; fortunately the trip back to Seattle went better. We spent the whole weekend catching up on sleep — er, I mean, hanging out! In a relaxed manner! We watched Byron play at the Granville Island spray park, hiked out at Lighthouse park, and had a small disorganized party with all of my friend*.

Byron is still asking when Aunt Becca is coming to visit again. She’s WAY more fun than Mommy, but I suppose that goes without saying.

In other news: I finally got my CONTRACT. Man! I was never told exactly what was the problem, beyond that there was some abnormal, embarrassing hold-up in my publisher’s contract-generating department (probably a wise move, since I am now unable to babble about it to the internets) — BUT, here we are, about 10 months after accepting the offer, and I only just now have the contract in my hands.

Which, I admit, is something of a relief.

Reading the contract made my eyes cross a bit, but I got through it. You will be amused to note that I retain the theme park rights in this deal. I never even knew I had such rights to retain, frankly, but that’s what contracts are for, I guess. Spelling everything out, so nobody can make any wrong assumptions.

Yet other news: today Byron started swimming lessons. Again, yes. We did it before, long ago, but it didn’t really take. I’m hoping that Byron, being a bit older, will make better progress this time around. I think it will also help that instead of being once a week for 10 weeks like our last set of lessons, these are every day for two weeks.

*Not a typo, just an old, old joke between my sister and me. “All of your friend? Really? Are you sure she never had her appendix out?”

Scott: You haven’t written a Milkbreath yet!

Me: Yah, I know, I’ve been doing housework all morning. My sister’s coming tonight…

Scott: She won’t care! You could write about your new ergonomic keyboard!

Me: I could?

Scott: It’s the perfect gift*! It gives you something to write with, and something to write about!

If only it also gave me extra time!

* Guess who gave me this perfect gift? Thanks, dude. I can already tell my wrists are going to like this, as novel #2 gets off the ground**.

** I WAS putting off getting started, yes, but this spiffy new keyboard makes me want to get to work! Where was I finding the time, though??

I knew it would be the case, but 36 doesn’t feel nearly as antique as 35.  In fact — bearing in mind that it’s only been a few hours — 36 feels downright sprightly.

Yes, yes, I’m a square.  Get it out of your systems now, squirts.  Also: I am middle-aged.  There’s no longer any wiggle-room on that one.  I could tell the minute I typed “36″ up above: I remember my mother being 36.  In fact, heh heh, I remember telling someone my mother was 36, and my mother getting a little bit cross with me for revealing her age.

Those were different times, friends.  36 has spent all those years since then getting much, much younger, running backwards to meet me halfway.  36 feels like the start of something, who knows what?  Like I’ve entered a different numerical country.  Nobody knows me here.  Won’t they be surprised when I kick ass!